


Misery Loves Company

by AnotherHomosexualMale



Series: Rare/Weird Couples That Actually Make Sense In My Mind [8]
Category: Prison Break, Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Closeted Character, Closeted Dean Winchester, Crossover, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, Kissing, M/M, One Night Stands, Rough Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:28:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26504392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnotherHomosexualMale/pseuds/AnotherHomosexualMale
Summary: The man sitting next to Michael at the gay bar has four shots lined up in front of him. He downs them quick and easy, one-two-three-four, then asks the bartender for more, and a beer to go with it.
Relationships: Michael Scofield/Dean Winchester
Series: Rare/Weird Couples That Actually Make Sense In My Mind [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1719358
Comments: 5
Kudos: 30





	Misery Loves Company

**Author's Note:**

> Set in 2005. A few months after Dean picks up Sam from College, and a few weeks before Michael goes to prison so he can rescue Lincoln.
> 
> Edit: And I know that Dean gets his tattoo like two seasons after this, but whatever, It's been years since I watched season 1, (or any other season tbh, cuz after the 5th one, everything is shit) so bear with the fact that he has it since the very beginning.

**Chicago, 2005**

The man sitting next to Michael at the gay bar has four shots lined up in front of him. He downs them quick and easy, one-two-three-four, then asks the bartender for more, and a beer to go with it. The bartender sets out the bottle, cracks the top off, and the man snatches it up immediately, tilting his head back as he takes a long pull, his throat working as he swallows. Michael’s fingers slip a little in the condensation on his glass, and he rips his gaze away from the man’s neck in order to get a better grip. He tosses back the dregs of his own drink, mirroring the other man’s position.

There are four more shots lined up on the bar now. Michael looks at them, then up at the man next to him. He finds the man looking back at him steadily, green eyes narrowed. He pushes one of the shot glasses Michael’s direction.

“You look like you could use that,” he says in a low, rough voice. Michael lifts the glass. He didn’t think he looked that bad, but if strangers are giving him alcohol, maybe he does. The whiskey burns on the way down, but it’s better than whatever sugary crap Michael was drinking before. He reaches for a second shot and pauses with his fingers on the rim.

“Go ahead,” the man says. “Misery loves company.” Michael watches him take another sip of his beer and finds himself staring. He takes the shot.

“What…?” he asks, wincing through the burn. “Who are you?”

“Dean,” the man replies. He doesn’t offer a hand for Michael to shake, doesn’t even look at Michael. Doesn’t ask Michael’s name.

“Michael,” Michael offers anyway with his usual bored tone, but loud enough to make himself heard through the Britney Spears song loudly playing in the background. He ends up drawling the letters of his own name, and it sounds like he’s flirting, cruising for a one-night stand. Michael bites his tongue. He hasn’t actually decided if he wants a one-night stand. “I don’t usually go to bars like these.”

“Yeah, you look a little out of place,” Dean says easily. Michael watches Dean’s fingers slide up to the neck of the bottle, watches it sway as he twists his hand. He drags his gaze up to Dean’s profile, the slope of his nose. He wants to see Dean’s eyes again.

“And how about you?” Michael drawls with a smirk, and Dean finally turns. He levels his gaze at Michael, confusion on his face.

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t seem like your typical out-of-the-closet kind of gay man.”

“Well- I’m not really gay… And I’m not out, I mean…” Dean tries to explain himself in a low grunt. “I like girls too…”

“Classic.” Michael half-mocks. “People can tell closeted cases…”

Dean angrily twists on his barstool, angling his body towards Michael. The man smiles with satisfaction, even as Dean’s voice sends a chill through his body. “People actually think you are straight, then?”

Michael rolls his eyes, not even bothering to look at him. “You tell me.” He's seeing right through Dean at every turn, and it’s weird. Usually he enjoys teasing dumb closeted country boys, and then fucking their mouths instead of actually engaging in conversation with them, but this one seems different, “So what’s your problem, huh?”

“You got no idea...”

“C’mon…” Michael throws another cold stare at the man, deciding to stop with the tease. “You said misery loves company. Well, I’m miserable. Keep me company.”

Dean’s eyes don’t leave Michael’s face, even as he reaches for a shot glass and pours it into his mouth, swallowing as if it were water. Dean slams the glass down on the bar. “I ain’t been laid in a while, how’s that for starters?”

Michael wonders if that’s an offer. If it is, Michael decides to take it. If it’s not, well… Michael can’t act more foolish than he has already. Michael slides off his barstool and sways forward, thigh coming in contact with Dean’s knee, catches himself with a hand on Dean’s ridiculously firm bicep.

“That could change,” Michael murmurs. Right now, Dean only has eyes for Michael, so it throws him off when Michael’s eyes cut to the side, scan the rest of the bar. Michael leans back, away from Dean, and Dean’s heart sinks. Then Michael’s sharp eyes come back, lock onto Dean’s, and Dean feels like he’s being studied, examined. He must pass whatever test Michael has, because Michael softens and takes Dean by the arm, holding him back while he steps off the barstool. _‘This guy seems to enjoy being bullied.’_ Michael thinks.

Michael’s tall, as tall as him. He steps away from Dean, keeping him at arm’s length. He glances around furtively and this time Dean mirrors him. He lets his gaze drop, swings his hair out over his face, and barely catches it when Michael whispers, “Let’s get out of here.”

Turns out, Dean’s staying in a cheap hotel downtown, only a few blocks from the bar. They walk, side-by-side, with a healthy bit of distance between them.

“How- How come people think you’re straight? I mean, you- you seem pretty… pretty,” Dean nervously blurts out of nowhere.

“Is pretty a requirement?” Michael asks. “Maybe it is. You’re pretty.”

Dean scoffs and makes a big show of looking up at the sky, at the street, at the stores. Anywhere but Michael. They walk into the hotel, and Dean still hasn’t met Michael’s eyes again. Michael shrugs, bored.

“Do you want to fuck me?” He’s honestly not sure. This country boy in particular seems too far deep in the closet.

Quick as a flash, Dean spins around and hooks his hand around the back of Michael’s neck, reeling him in. His eyes are back, dark and intense, and his breath is warm on Michael’s face. “You have to ask?” he whispers.

“Mixed signals, dude,” Michael says almost coldly. Dean lets go of him and leads the way to the motel room, last door on the row. He follows Dean into the room.

There are two beds, both slept in, two duffel bags, two jackets hanging over the chairs, and a pile of old yellow books open on the table. “Is someone…”

“He won’t be back tonight,” Dean says quickly, keeping his voice low. His stoic mask has cracked; his face is more open now, more vulnerable in a way Michael can’t describe. He can finally see a little of that misery Dean mentioned back at the bar.

“Do you wanna fuck me?” Michael asks again.

Dean steps into Michael’s space, shockingly fast like before, cupping Michael’s cheek gently with one hand, the other lightly resting on his shoulder. He’s so… tender, so careful. Not what Michael expected.

He speaks in a breathy whisper, eyes searching Michael’s face. “Can I…” he says. “Can I kiss you?”

Dean doesn’t say anything else. He’s staring at Michael’s face, his thumb grazing the corner of the other man’s mouth.

Michael smirks. “Sure…”

Dean breathes out, already leaning in to press his lips to Michael’s. His fingertips dig a little into Michael’s short hair, holding him close, and Michael opens for him with a sigh, and there’s the fierceness Michael expected. Dean pushes him backward, slamming him against the wall with sudden force, even as he cups the back of Michael’s head protectively. Michael reaches up and slides his hands down the back of Dean’s overshirt, fisting the collar of the t-shirt underneath.

Dean takes the hint and wrestles the shirt off his shoulders without breaking for air, revealing thickly muscled arms and a firm, tight chest the loose fabric hid well. Michael grabs the hem of the t-shirt and lifts up, wanting to see, and Dean takes a step back to get rid of it too. He stands in front of Michael in just his jeans, panting, looking for all the world like some kind of department store model, plastered life-size in shopping malls. Michael drinks in the sight of all the well-defined muscles, the broad shoulders, the circular tattoo just beneath his collarbone.

Then he realizes it’s his turn. Michael shifts his shoulders back and lets his leather jacket slide off his arms and crumple to the floor. He’s proud of the definition in his arms, a testament to his daily workout, but he feels smaller next to Dean.

Dean takes Michael’s wrist in his hand and pulls his arm out between them, his gaze raking up and down the tattoos covering his arms.

“Horror movies,” Dean says with a faint grin. “Horror movies and cowboys.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s just… That’s…”

“What?”

Dean laughs softly. “That’s perfect… Michael.”

That’s the first time he’s said Michael’s name. Michael smiles, and doesn’t resist when Dean pulls Michael’s t-shirt up over his head. His eyes dart back up to Michael’s face and he steps closer again, this time tracing Michael’s strong jaw with his fingertips.

“So pretty…” he growls. He presses Michael back against the wall as they kiss again, and the heat and pressure of his body is overwhelming, intoxicating. Michael turns his head to the side to gasp for air. This kissing is hot… Almost desperate. Michael clings to Dean’s shoulders and surrenders to it.

Michael thinks he should be used to Dean’s surprising agility by now, but he’s shocked when he suddenly finds himself on his back on one of the rumpled beds, Dean’s fingers working at his belt buckle. It doesn’t take long for Dean to get him naked, jeans and underwear peeled off and tossed to the floor with his boots. Then Dean kneels up on the bed between Michael’s legs, jeans sagging low on his hips now that his belt is undone, fly gaping open.

Dean lowers himself down on top of Michael before Michael gets a chance to reach out; He slides an arm up under Michael’s shoulder, lifting him and rolling them to the side, and Michael twines his arms around Dean’s neck so they don’t slip away from each other. Dean then positions himself beneath Michael, kicking down his jeans while his fingers dig into Michael’s spine, and moans low into Michael’s mouth. Michael takes it as permission to settle his weight, stop worrying about crushing Dean.

“Come on,” Michael murmurs and drags Dean’s hand to his ass. “You done this before?”

“Kinda…” Dean answers breathlessly. Michael plants his hands on either side of Dean’s head and pushes himself up onto his knees.

“What does that mean?”

Michael touches the tattoo on Dean’s chest, traces his finger in a circle around it. Dean’s breathing is still heavy. “Just— Sucking each other… Not this....”

“You know how it works?” Michael asks gently.

Dean nods, not meeting Michael’s eyes. “Do you?”

“I know enough.”

Michael feels Dean’s hand on his hip, nudging him higher onto his knees, and Michael lifts himself out of the way so Dean can shimmy all the way out of his boxers and jeans. Dean raises his knee and Michael shifts back against him, ass against Dean’s firm thigh.

Dean’s pretty in the way that commands attention, but like Michael, he doesn’t want all those eyes on him. He wants to be invisible. Michael lowers himself back down and closes his eyes as their lips meet in a chaste, slow kiss.

“Don’t be scared of me,” he whispers.

“I’m not, I…” Dean’s hands stroke up and down Michael’s arms, chafing them, warming him. “I just want it to be good.”

Michael kisses him again. “How can it be bad?”

Dean doesn’t answer. He reaches for the nightstand and pulls the supplies they need out of the top drawer. Michael watches his face as he listens to Dean slicking his fingers, holds his breath when he feels the chilly, wet touch of lube against his ass.

“Relax,” Dean murmurs with his lips against Michael’s cheek.

Michael forces the air out of his lungs and shifts his stance, ducking his head down to rest against Dean’s collarbone, looking down in the darkness between their bodies. He can see Dean’s cock from this angle, hard and wet at the tip, curved up and lying against his belly. Michael spreads his legs a little wider around Dean’s hips and breathes slowly, waiting for the intrusion.

Dean’s fingers are thicker than Michael’s own, but it doesn’t hurt when he pushes the first one in, or even the second. Michael arches his back a little, rocking his body backwards in counterpoint, and mouths at the tattoo on Dean’s chest. He licks the outline of it, sucking a kiss into Dean’s skin, and Dean catches him by surprise when he slides a third finger inside him. Michael gasps, his teeth grazing Dean’s chest as he breathes through the stretch.

“Okay?” Dean asks. He’s stopped moving completely, waiting for Michael’s response.

Michael kisses Dean’s tattoo again and lifts his head. “Yeah,” he says as he meets Dean’s worried gaze. “I’m good.”

“You ready?”

Michael nods. He presses a quick kiss to Dean’s mouth, too fast for Dean to kiss him back. “You know, you’re not like I thought you’d be,” Michael tells him quietly.

Dean busies himself with pulling his fingers out of Michael’s ass and rolling the condom onto his dick. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s good. I just wasn’t expecting you to be so… _Careful_.”

Dean’s hand comes up to cup Michael’s cheek. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he says firmly. “I won’t.”

“You don’t need to protect some guy you met at a bar, you know. I’m stronger than I look...”

“I’m sure you can take care of yourself,” Dean replies, and Michael sees a flash of humor in the tight set of his mouth.

“I don’t always like to,” Michael admits. Dean’s hand drops from his cheek, settles on his shoulder instead and pulls him down so their chests are flush. Michael can feel Dean’s hot breath on his cheek, the feather-light graze of his lips as they move.

“Then let me take care of you,” Dean whispers. His hand slides around to the center of Michael’s back and then down, down his spine, down around his ass. He pulls Michael against him and fits his cock to Michael’s ass, and Michael kisses Dean as he pushes in, muffling his moan in Dean’s mouth.

Dean braces his feet on the bed and rocks his hips up, setting an easy, gentle rhythm. One hand on Michael’s ass keeps them joined together, and the other curved around his back keeps Michael held close against Dean’s chest. Michael half-expects Dean to roll them, turn them over so he can get more leverage, so he doesn’t have to take Michael’s weight, but Dean seems unhurried, and a man of simple pleasures. No practiced or planned moves. No pointed dirty talk, aimed to speed things along. Michael feels his limbs go weak and fluid and he relaxes into Dean, sinking down against him.

Dean takes the added weight easily, stroking his hand up and down Michael’s spine in a soft caress that sharpens as it reaches Michael’s lower back, fingertips digging into Michael’s skin in time with his thrusts.

Michael moans again, letting the sound slip out where their lips part, and Dean’s grip on him eases. Michael pushes himself up on his hands and looks down at Dean’s wet, full lips, the blush staining his stubbled cheeks. His eyes are closed, lashes fanning out beautifully. Michael rests his weight on one arm and traces Dean’s cheekbone with his fingertip, following the long shadows.

Dean’s eyes pop open and immediately lock onto Michael’s. Their fluid rhythm ceases. Michael presses himself back, pulling Dean into his body as much as he can. They’re just staring at each other. Dean’s eyes are soft now, bright, shining green even in the darkness. Captivating.

Michael studies Dean’s face.

“Do you…”

Michael’s not sure what Dean meant to ask, but he pushes himself all the way upright, exhaling long and hard as Dean’s cock shifts inside him. His own stands out against his body, thick and veiny against the patch of dark hair surrounding it. He watches Dean’s gaze drop and hold there.

“Will you kiss me?” Dean asks, his voice strangely choked. “Please?”

Michael’s lips return in a second, and Dean’s eyes flutter closed again, but only for a brief second. Michael lifts himself on his knees, shuddering as Dean’s cock slides out of his body, but in the next moment, he slams himself back down, startling a moan out of Dean.

The new angle makes sparks light up behind Michael’s eyes and he loses focus, feels his throat vibrating with sound but doesn’t know what he’s saying.

Michael rocks up high on his knees again, then back down, a little easier and a little faster now, with those same electric sparks of pleasure shooting deep in his gut. He moans loudly and Dean’s hand squeezes tight on Michael’s hip.

“You good?” he asks breathlessly.

“Fuck yes,” Michael groans. “Fucking awesome. More. Like that. _Harder_.”

“Oh, fuck, _yeah_ ,” Dean says in an answering moan, low and deep in his chest, and Michael imagines he can feel it vibrating through Dean’s body. Dean’s hand on his cock speeds up, setting a rhythm, squeezing a little but never very hard, never tight enough. Michael layers his hand over Dean’s, fits his fingers into the valleys of Dean’s knuckles, and presses Dean’s fingers tighter, tighter, tighter, until it almost hurts, it’s so good. The smooth, skin-warm band around Dean’s finger digs in a little, sliding easily through slick pre-cum, making Michael’s thighs tense and jerk, even though he can’t really move. Michael moves his hand down to Dean’s strong forearm, grabs him tight, and throws his head back on a moan.

“Michael,” Dean gasps. “Michael, look at me...”

Michael has to force his gaze down, but meeting Dean’s bright green eyes isn’t a hardship. He stares, panting hard, as Dean shakes his head minutely. He feels Dean’s hand twist, tight and steady on his cock, and he thinks he can feel Dean’s cock inside him, throbbing, pulsing in time with Dean’s heart.

“I don’t wanna hurt you…” Dean says, words slurring as he clenches his teeth.

“It’s good,” Michael says. He shakes his head. “Fuck. I’m gonna come, please… More. Need it, come on…”

Dean’s hand on Michael’s hip sets him into motion again, and this time they move in counterpoint, Dean’s quick upward thrust matching Michael’s grind down, and it’s powerful, Michael can feel the strength in Dean’s thighs, his abs as he meets Michael’s every motion with one of his own. His fingers tighten around Michael’s cock again as well, without Michael’s urging, and Michael’s suddenly caught between instincts, drawn down two paths that aren’t merging as they probably should. His body pushes forward, into Dean’s grip, but he keeps forcing himself back, down onto Dean’s cock. He feels like a puppet pulled by two opposite strings, and the tension in the pit of his stomach claws his way up his throat, out of his mouth as a growling, shuddering cry.

“ _That’s it, baby_ ,” he hears Dean muttering. “ _That’s it, come for me now. Come for me, baby. Let me see you… So pretty, Michael_ …”

Michael slams his hand down on Dean’s chest, blunt, ragged nails leaving fine pink scratches on Dean’s skin, and comes, messy and slick all over Dean’s fingers, his belly, Michael’s own wrist. He lets himself fall, smearing his come between them, and his fingers slide through Dean’s short-cropped hair, cupping his skull as he leans up to meet Michael’s lips in a kiss. His hands slither out from between their bodies and cling hard, wrapped around Michael far enough to for his fingertips to graze Michael’s sides, forearms locked tight around Michael’s back. Dean tips them sideways and they roll smoothly until Michael’s on his back with Dean lying over him, weight balanced on his knees between Michael’s spread legs. Dean manages the whole maneuver without his cock even slipping from Michael’s ass.

Dean breaks their kiss with a wet slide of lips. “You good?” he whispers, eyes glittering down at Michael, finally showing a bit of amusement, a bit of need.

“Yeah,” Michael replies with a lazy smirk. “Go for it.”

“Fuckin’ beautiful,” Dean mutters, then his attention turns to the task at hand and he pulls Michael’s legs higher around his hips, pushing and pulling until he has Michael caught, pinned beneath him with enough leverage to actually hold him there while he thrusts. Michael doesn’t have to move anymore, doesn’t have to concentrate, just lies still and lets Dean control his body.

Boneless now, his legs slip down Dean’s narrow hips, slick, sweaty skin sliding against skin, and Dean doesn’t hesitate before wrapping his hands under Michael’s thighs and lifting him again, manhandling him into a better position with his calves hooked over Dean’s shoulders and his knees almost pressing into his chest. The stretch pulls at Michael’s back, at his thighs and abs and even his toes, but it’s just another layer of sensation, something else to lose himself in as the pressure of Dean’s cock in his ass splits him open.

Michael keeps his eyes on Dean’s face, the shine of sweat across his nose. He wrests control of one of his limp, useless arms and reaches up, tracing his fingers across the bridge of Dean’s nose, following the smattering of freckles up over his cheek, his forehead, into his hair.

Dean’s body is in constant motion, but his eyes are so still, locked onto Michael’s like he can’t make himself look away. Michael watches Dean’s face twist, his jaw clench, and Dean’s grip on Michael’s waist tightens, all at once hard enough to bruise and hurt. He seems to realize what he’s doing and his hands slip away, slam down instead on either side of Michael on the bed, pulling him into a deeper stretch and leaning down low enough to capture Michael’s parted lips in a kiss.

Michael’s eyes fall closed. The frantic thrusting stutters to a halt and Dean gasps against Michael’s mouth, choked-off, barely-there noises that mean nothing. Dean breaks their kiss but stays close, panting, his whiskey-sharp breath gusting across Michael’s face. Michael opens his eyes again, sees Dean almost too close to focus on, sees the wrinkle of his eyebrows and the lines around his tightly-clenched eyes.

“Dean,” Michael whispers. He wants to touch Dean’s face again, soothe away those painful lines, but Dean is too close, Dean isn’t responding. “Dean,” Michael says again.

“I’m sorry, I’m crushing you,” Dean mutters, starting to move away without even opening his eyes. Michael’s legs fall down flat on either side of Dean’s body as Dean pulls out, and it’s a relief for his muscles, but now Michael feels too lax, stretched past his limit like taffy. He slings an arm around Dean’s neck, wanting to keep him close, but Dean just slides away, still strong and powerful even after his orgasm. He’s not looking at Michael, still, and that doesn’t sit right.

“Are you okay?” Michael asks in a low tone as Dean gets off the bed and finds a towel to clean up with. He doesn’t particularly want to move, but he manages to push himself up on his elbows to watch Dean wander around the motel room, disposing of the condom and nudging random things like he’s trying to clean up.

Dean chuckles under his breath. He pulls on a pair of boxer-briefs and stays on the other side of the room. He says quietly, “I should be asking you that.”

Michael grins. “I’m good... That was great, actually…”

“You’ll be sore tomorrow,” Dean says, finally turning around. His expression is unreadable now, stoic and blank, and Michael wonders if this is a hint, if he should be getting dressed and getting the fuck out of Dean’s space now.

“I asked for it,” Michael replies, scratching the back of his head distractedly. He rolls into a sitting position and lets his feet dangle off the edge of the bed. “Is your friend coming back?”

Dean scrubs a hand over his face and Michael sees the blankness disappear. Dean softens as he looks back at Michael, a ghost of a smile flickering around his lips. “He won’t be back until morning. If you want to stay.”

Michael nods and hopes that’s answer enough. He doesn’t have to work in the morning, and he could really take a night off from his research and plotting to free his brother. They each go through their nightly rituals without speaking, and settle back into bed half-dressed, both of them lying on their sides, facing each other, the unspoken silence of the city noises outside enveloping their bodies.

Michael drags his finger down the slope of Dean’s nose and whispers, “I like your freckles.”

Dean’s eyes flutter closed and he licks his lips. He finally lays his hand on Michael’s hip, curls his fingers into the dip of his waist, and pulls him in close, so their bodies touch.

“I like your eyes,” Michael continues with his usual drawl, keeping a straight face, this time tracing Dean’s eyebrow before moving his fingers down to Dean’s mouth, “and your lips, and the way you kiss me like you’re nervous...”

“I’m not nervous,” Dean says without opening his eyes. Michael ignores him. He’s lying, anyway.

“I like your body. Your arms… So hot...”

Dean’s lips curve into a shy smile.

“I like your tattoo.” Michael leans in and kisses Dean’s soft lips and there’s hardly any response. He lets Dean breathe against him for a while before scooting away, settling into the pillow. Michael’s body wants to sleep, and he’s comfortable here in Dean’s arms on this crappy motel mattress, but he can’t bring himself to close his eyes now. Can’t shut off his brain as it takes in every detail of Dean’s face, the freckles and the stubble, the lines of weariness that have finally smoothed out in sleep.

Michael doesn’t know how long he lies there, just watching Dean sleep; it feels like both forever and no time at all when he finally gets twitchy and has to move. First he rolls over onto his back and Dean’s hand slides across his stomach. That’s warm and nice for about a minute, but then Michael starts to think that he’s breathing too fast, moving too much, and he’s going to wake Dean up, so he scoots back and sits up, gently moving Dean’s hand to the mattress between them. Dean’s fingers flex weakly but he doesn’t wake up, just turns on his stomach and buries his face in the pillow with a muffled sigh.

Michael pulls his legs up and rests his chin on his knee for a moment, looking around the darkened room. He can’t figure out anything about Dean’s friend other than he’s a guy, based on the clothes lying around. Michael wonders when he’ll come back, and if they’ll meet. He wonders if he’s even ready for that, for being awkwardly introduced as some dude’s one-night stand. Then he wonders if Dean’s ready for that, when Dean’s probably not even out to his friend. If Dean’s even gay, or bisexual, or if tonight was some kind of exception. Michael’s not sure how he feels about that, about whatever connection he feels to Dean not even being real.

It has to be real. Dean couldn’t fake that. And it wouldn’t matter anyway, because tomorrow Michael will be back in his office, sketching tattoos and learning prison blueprints, and he’ll never see Dean again. He’s putting too much importance on this night, on this random country boy.

Michael rubs his face, annoyed with himself. He knows now that sleep is a long way off, but he needs to stop thinking, stop letting in the stupid doubts, that frustratingly persistent self-consciousness of fear, knowing what he’s planning after being purposefully incarcerated.

He lets his knees fall and tucks his feet up under his thighs, hunching over his lap a little to stare at Dean again. The sheets are bunched low around Dean’s waist, exposing his whole back. At first Michael thinks the only things marring Dean’s pale skin are more freckles, but as he looks closer, he sees raised marks. Scars. Nothing too terrible or too noticeable, but now that Michael has noticed, he’s curious in how they were made.

He’s got scars of his own, and he doesn’t like talking about them, so he always assumes other people won’t like talking about their scars either. He’ll never know how Dean got the thin, jagged line trailing from the back of his neck to his shoulder-blade, or the thick scar on his ribs. He won’t know about the burn marks on Dean’s bicep or the deep bruise on Dean’s opposite shoulder. Michael’s curious hand reaches out with one hand to touch one of the scars, feel how raised and smooth the damaged skin is now that it’s healed.

Michael can feel a couple of the scars under his fingertips, but he sees now that there are more, all over the place. Smaller, faded, smooth, but present. He has no idea how Dean got so banged up.

Dean makes a noise. Wordless, under his breath, muffled by the pillow, but still vocal. He must be dreaming. Michael lies down again with a huff, head pillowed on his arm so he can keep watching Dean, curiosity winning out over trying to sleep himself.

Dean’s shoulders draw up tight, tension arcing through his entire body, and he rubs his face hard against the pillow, almost like he’s trying to scrub himself clean. His lips part and he gasps, clenching his jaw and panting through his teeth, and Michael knows now that this isn’t a good dream.

“Dean?” he asks quietly, gently, hoping to bring Dean out of it without spooking him.

Dean’s face creases in pain and he speaks again. This time, Michael can hear the word “no” among the indecipherable vocalizations.

“Dean,” Michael says, more firmly now. “You’re dreaming, man, come on. Wake up now.”

Dean’s hands clench into fists. He pushes them under the pillow. He’s squirming, writhing on the sheets like he’s trying to run away but can’t. He’s murmuring, pleading, helpless words caught in his throat, and Michael needs to fucking wake him up.

He lays his hand on Dean’s shoulder, intending to jostle him out of his nightmare, but all of a sudden he finds himself flat on his back with Dean’s forearm arm heavy and strong across his sternum and a huge silver knife tight against his throat. Dean’s staring down at him with his teeth bared, eyes shining with rage, and Michael can’t breathe. He can’t move. Can’t shove Dean off even if he wanted to, and he can’t summon up the will to try.

But then Dean exhales sharply, takes a few more deep breaths, and his face softens. His eyes narrow, eyebrows drawn together in confusion. Then his mouth drops open, eyes going wide, and he lets the knife fall away. Michael hears it clatter to the floor beside the bed. Dean sits back on his heels, withdrawing completely from Michael and putting several inches between them, as far away as he can go without getting off the tiny bed.

“I’m sorry,” he says breathlessly. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t… I’m sorry.”

Michael scrambles up to sit against the headboard, running his hands over his throat to check for blood. They come away clean. “What the fuck happened to you, man?”

“How do you know something happened to me and not the other way around? I nearly slit your throat,” Dean replies roughly.

“You sleep with a fucking knife under your pillow! I’ll tell you right now, with nightmares like that, you should stay away from sharp objects!”

Dean scrubs his face with both hands. He looks like he did when they first got into the room, cracked open and bleeding his heart out, tired and sad. “I’m sorry. You should get dressed, you should go.”

Still with one hand over his eyes, Dean reaches blindly for the nightstand between the beds, unerringly closing his fingers around a bottle of scotch. The cap disappears and Dean tilts the bottle back, gulping it down. His lips come off the rip with a wet pop and Michael listens to his shaking breaths as he gasps for air.

Before he can think better of it, Michael reaches out and nudges Dean’s arm with the back of his hand. Dean hands over the bottle easily, falling from lax fingers into Michael’s waiting grasp. Michael downs a couple of swallows and feels his heart rate start to slow back down to normal.

“What the hell were you dreaming about?”

Dean huffs out an unamused laugh. “You don’t wanna know.” He takes the scotch back and drinks some more. Michael’s no slouch himself, but Dean seems to drink a lot. “You should go now.”

Dean rolls off the bed and pads around the room in his underwear, bending to pick up clothes Michael discarded earlier. Shirt, socks, pants; Dean lays them all out at the foot of the bed. He keeps a hold of Michael’s jacket, his thumb stroking the place near the cuff where the leather’s worn thin and buttery soft. He finally lays that on the bed too, then backs up to lean against the wall, arms crossed over his bare chest.

“You want me to go?” Michael asks. His voice sounds small to his own ears, swallowed up by the tension in the dark room.

“Dude, I just tried to kill you in my sleep… I think you should leave before I try again.”

“What happened to you?”

“I told you, you don’t wanna know,” Dean says dismissively. “Now come on, get dressed. Sam’s gonna be back soon anyway, you gotta get out…” Dean leans close but keeps a few inches between them. “I’m sorry I ruined your night,” he says softly.

Michael leans up, closes the distance between them and touches his lips carefully to Dean’s. Dean closes his eyes and breathes out slowly, and Michael can feel his body relaxing. He wants to stay. He wants Dean back to normal, not all scared and tense like this. But Dean pulls Michael out of the way of the door, opens it, nudges Michael out onto the hallway.

“It’s time for you to go, Michael.”

Michael stands there with his jacket over his arm. Dean watches him for a long moment, his eyes warm, then carefully closes the door in Michael’s face.

Not knowing that in just a few weeks, during a cheap breakfast with Sam in a Seattle's motel’s small diner, he’ll be seeing that exact same handsome face staring coldly at him in every single News channel, reporting his insane escape alongside other prisoners from Fox River State Penitentiary, and he’ll drop his cup of coffee over the table, startling his brother and everyone else around them.

'Scofield' was his last name… And apparently, he purposefully got incarcerated just so he could free his brother, who had been put on a death row.

So maybe Dean had been right. Maybe they shared way more things in common than he had initially thought. Maybe that was why the kisses, and the caresses, and the sex had felt so right that night… So full of life. He knew that something else had pulled him towards Michael’s lonely figure sitting at the bar.

And maybe, just maybe, they’ll end up meeting again… Only time will tell.


End file.
